Disco Bloodbath?
by charredred
Summary: Marissa didn't die, the four chose different paths and things turned out differently. Will they move on or forget about the past and get back together? RM, SS. Prologue is pretty boring, but after that it's good. So be patient.
1. My Mouth is Tightly Bound With Duct Tape

(they probably will not read this. hahaha. but I'll type it anyway.) This story is dedicated to **dog tags** (bec) and **BrilliantSerendipity** (kari). Hopefully, you both know why.

**Disclaimer:** the usual.

**A/N:** So. This is it. My fifth fic. It's been a couple of years since I last updated my fic, so I dunno if my writing skills have deteriorated or whatever, but I will assure you this fic is going to be good. I've always believed that there should've been a greater bond between Summer and Ryan (not intimate), and that Marissa shouldn't have been killed (Schwartz ran out of ideas, and he probs wanted to get rid of Barton, heh).

**The prologue is pretty boring (I think) so please be patient and read the next chapter aswell. **

If you're looking for a fluffy story with the core couples living happily ever after, then I suggest you click the 'back' button on the top left corner of your screen to save tears, regret and empty feelings in your heart (lol Lemony Snicketttt).

_What if Marissa hadn__'__t died and the four had chosen different paths?_

You will soon find out. Read if you dare.

* * *

**Prologue  
My Mouth is Tightly Bound With Duct Tape**

* * *

She was not like this.

At least on magazines, TV shows and posters.

I hid my shock very well—my face remained expressionless—but inside, my mind was paralysed, tangled up with various feelings—stupor, disappointment, perplexity and inertia. I had not seen her close for years.

Her face was gaunt, she had probably lost a fourth of her weight, and she seemed a little taller than before.

She was not like this. She was not Marissa Cooper, but a different person that I had never known. She was supposed to be more elegant, less harsh-looking, and supple with fuller lips. I did not know that several years were enough for anyone to change completely.

But then a thought hit me.

Maybe she had always been like this—messed up, suffering in her own world, not even listening to others for a split second.  
Perhaps the memories of her I had of when we were young had glamorized her and had probably created lustre in Coop who had lived in my imagination for the past few years.

Nothing had changed.

A voice woke me up. "So Marissa, this is Summer Roberts, and she'll be doing your make-up for the next few days."

I stuck my hand out perfunctorily. "Nice to meet you." I did not dare say her name.  
At first she looked a bit surprised, but then her expression turned into a supercilious smile which made me want to slap her.

"Nice to meet you too," she said, and shook my hand gently. Her fingers were like twigs, and they felt hollow. I followed my gaze from her fingers to her hand, then towards her emaciated arm. "You must be the ingenious make-up artist I keep hearing about."

I smiled back tentatively, but then felt a pang of self-dislike. Tentativeness was a bad sign. I gathered all the confidence I had, then said, "Yes I am."

* * *

We had all chosen different paths silently, keeping it a secret.

Marissa Cooper was the first one to do so, right after the infamous Julie Cooper had died. By then they had already created a true bond of mother and daughter, so the death was much harder to endure.

Julie Cooper was quite intimate with a rich man for a while after Caleb had died, but she soon found another wealthier man and dumped her boyfriend. That had probably been the biggest mistake; one day her manic ex barged into her workplace and stabbed her in the back. Julie managed to fight back though; she hit his head hard with a wine bottle, and he died immediately.

Apparently a panicking Julie (who was holding a broken bottle) said, "It doesn't count as murder 'cause it's self defence, right?" before she collapsed and was sent to hospital.

At the end of her funeral, the story was retold, and many of us laughed with a bittersweet tone when we heard what she had last said, saying it was very Julie Cooper-ish.

After her mother's death Marissa became depressed. At first I was worried about her; her life was being turned upside-down, she had made new 'friends' who were most of the time stoned. We could do nothing about it and she dropped out of school without saying a word to us. After all that we never saw her again, at least in Newport.

Julie Cooper had taken "Coop" with her.

Marissa must've had a hard time, and Ryan suffered the same. His girlfriend chose drugs over him. For a while he was so vulnerable; he was a pet abandoned by its owner with nowhere to go. But I managed to get him back on track. He only needed someone to rely on until his wounds healed. Ryan studied hard—to occupy himself with something other than thoughts about Marissa, and to become a lawyer and follow Sandy's footsteps.

Ryan and I—we had been through so much. People who we thought were close to abandoned us once in a while, and luck always kept running away. But we always had each other. We lived in a small house on a peaceful street. Many thought that we were newlyweds. It wasn't like that. He was like my little brother. We needed each other, at least until our old memories stopped haunting us in our dreams.

And Cohen...

* * *

I was brushing purple eyeshadow onto the outer corner of her eyelid when she suddenly talked.

"Why are you pretending?"

The purple stung my eye as I thought of something to say.

"Don't talk, your face will move and it makes it harder for me to do your make-up."

"Perfect." She answered, barely audible.

_Whatever,_ I thought, and rolled my eyes.

A moment of silence followed, and the sound of the make-up brush sweeping against her skin reached my ears.

"I know you're dying to know what Seth's doing," she mumbled. I nearly dropped my brush when I heard his name aloud, but I continued on. I was shocked—I thought I had already become immune to that name. I had just reacted the way she had expected me to, and I felt chagrined.

"I don't," I said. But she rambled on.

"He's become a writer…as well as a comic book one. I don't know where he lives, but I heard he's in this city."

I said nothing.

Seth Cohen was a traitor, an asshole, and the worst boyfriend that I had ever had.

Just thinking about him made me sick, but at the same time, "Seth Cohen" seemed like someone who had existed way back in time, if not, non-existent. I would sometimes think,

_Maybe I had just made him up__ in my mind__ Maybe he was just a hallucination. _Or,

_Maybe, even if he passes me in the street, I wouldn__'__t look twice._

The thought made me empty inside, and all of my energy would drain away, and I wouldn't even be able to cry or sob. I didn't want to either.

_What was _he_ thinking? Does he even remember me?__ Would he even __recognize__ me if __he saw__ me now?_

During the mess we all went through in high school after Julie had died, our relationship fizzled to an end. Seth Cohen had made an unfathomable and irrevocable decision. Just when I thought that things couldn't get any worse, Cohen ran away from me. I was depressed, of course. But I just didn't care anymore.

I cried a lot though.

And to keep my 'perfect plastic girl' image, I'd cover my whole face with make-up to hide the puffiness of my eyes and the half dark moons under them. Since then I think I've loved make-up more than clothes—I was suddenly amazed at how it could change your appearance dramatically. I was left by Seth Cohen, but I met my new passion—make-up art.

I told Marissa to stretch her eyelids by looking down, and I applied glue to the false lashes, pressing them down onto her eyelid, center first, then out to the edges. The conversation of Seth Cohen had ended a while ago and neither of us spoke after that. We were probably both in deep thought.

The day blurred past me, I did Marissa Cooper's make-up and she completed her modeling. And I was falling in an abyss of despair.

We were both strangers.

When I was doing her eye make-up, I thought I saw a mixture of desire and repression glint in her eyes.  
Repression for her strong desire to ask me about Ryan Atwood.

_"__Let me see your wardrobe,__"__ he said, reaching out his hands to open the doors. They made a noisy creak as they o__pened, and he peered inside.  
__"Wow, so this is what you__'__ve been blowing your money on,__"__ he chuckled. __H__alf of my wardrobe was a make-up cabinet__—__numerous lipsticks in rows, eyes__hadow cases lined up in columns and a box full of other junk.  
__"__I__'__ll give you a make-over if you want, Chino," __I__ offered, smirking. __I__ looked at him sideways from the corners of my eyes. __H__e was smiling too.  
__"__Um, no thanks.__"_

_

* * *

_**A/N:** so, t'was long and I don't think you understood it all that well but it gets interesting, and everything will be crystal clear in the next chapter (that is if I write one lolll).

If you review, I'll update, tell me what you thought, I don't care if it's short :D it doesn't take long to do so does it??

Let me know if I should continue.


	2. Honey, We're Taking Things Way Too Fast

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the O.C., blah blah blah, whatever.

**A/N: **A virtual hug for all the people who reviewed. And Kari, I am glad to hear from you (finally)! Quick find your motivation! lol. Anyway, please R&R this chapter as well. Oh and thanks to the people who reviewed **1999**, if you're reading this.

By the way I changed the story title. If you know Cobra Starship then I think you'll know where it came from, I know, there is no "I'll" between the comma and the "See", but I didn't have enough space. 50 characters is the limit.

* * *

**Chapter One****  
****Honey, We****'****re ****Taking Things Way Too Fast**

* * *

Her beauty was like the blade of a sharp knife—captivating, but toxic.

I was seeing her for the first time in what felt like a hundred years.

"Ryan," she said, her voice full of confidence and amorousness, as she pushed the door open wider to get a better look at me. Her mini skirt revealed a pair of thin long legs, and the low cut top showed her cleavage. Her dirty-blond hair rippled past her shoulders.

I could feel her coming closer, and my stomach stirred.

I didn't even know why she knew where I lived or why she was here.

She reached her hand out towards me and dared to touch my arm for the first time in four years—her movement was a blur, and suddenly everything was silent and in slow-motion. Her fingertips grazed my skin. I stopped breathing for a second.

Her hand was then placed on the side of my face. I looked down at the floor—how could I look her in the eye, after all this time? How could _she?_

"Look at me."

I knew today day was going to be a different day.

* * *

I sensed everything when I was having breakfast with Summer that morning. She was going to leave for work. I was going to uni. I asked her:

"Who's the model today?"

I was surprised when she didn't reply. Usually she's start the conversation enthusiastically. But she didn't that day. And she didn't even answer my question, but instead said:

"I'm going to stay downtown for the night. I might come back tomorrow."

That was the last thing she said before she pat me on the back and left for work. I thought she was a bit weird.

Until 6 months ago, Summer'd stay in a hotel every now and then. I once asked her why, but she was a little hesitant, so I told her not to tell me if she didn't want to. Everyone had their secrets. But I was confused, nevertheless.

Then she suddenly stopped. That confused me even more.

And now she was doing it again.

She was weird.

* * *

Let me tell you about Summer's crush on her 12th grade substitute math teacher.

One day, when Summer was at work and I was on holiday, I wandered into her room; I was looking for my lost CD and thought she had forgotten to return it to me. I searched for it gingerly, carefully putting things where they first were, so that Summer wouldn't know I had gone into her room.

The chances of finding it in her closet were slim, so I mostly searched in the drawers and the bookshelf.

I suddenly stumbled upon an old notebook—it as disgusting and scruffy, and I had never seen it before. The thing that made me open it was dirtiness, really. And I honestly wasn't at all that curious until I found out that it had been her diary during her years in high school.

She had been writing in it for a about year—starting just after her relationship with Seth disappeared, and ending when she began studying for the SAT.

I knew that it was wrong to read someone's diary, sticking your nose into someone else's private business. But this was sorta different. I really wanted to know what Summer had felt during the hardship we endured in high school, and couldn't help myself. Besides, Summer wasn't coming back for another couple of hours.

First of all, she hadn't written about Seth, not a single word or a single implication. But that was until I read the diary entry about her math teacher.

It was dated, _September__ 22, _just after the new year had begun.

On that day, her regular math teacher _"__Bishop__"_ was sick, so a substitute had filled in for him. The substitute's name was Silver Bennet. A pretty weird name. Summer wrote that _"__The moment he entered the classroom he __captivated__ all the girls, I mean seriously, who wouldn__'__t be attracted? __M__y first impression was, OMG.__"_ Apparently he was extremely handsome or, _"hott__"_ with scruffy copper hair, a straight, angular nose, and hazel eyes. He was slim and wore a black suit. _"__Plus he was good at teaching, __I__ mean __I__ understood what he was actually saying__—__I usually don__'__t get anything related to math.__"_

He was 25.

_"__I__'__m 17...so that means an eight year__'__s difference.__"_

She kept babbling about him for a couple of days, then suddenly stopped.

_"__Maybe I should find myself someone my own age... But wait, __I__ couldn__'__t__ when __I__ last tried __because __I__ couldn__'__t forget about Cohen.__"_

The "Cohen" was nearly illegible, it was simply just a scribble and I interpreted it.

She never talked about the math teacher or Seth, ever again.

* * *

I lay on the bed naked, my back turned towards her. I wanted to get away from Marissa. I wanted to be anywhere but here. I wanted her gone. But here she was, running her fingertips up and down my back.

If all of this had happened before I entered uni, I would've told her to stop when she kissed me on the lips. _We shouldn't be doing this. _or, _I need some space._

But now I was someone else. I hadn't had sex for months—the last time I did was when I screwed a hot math major at a party last year. So I succumbed to her charm and her amorous advances. I was a fool. I only wanted sex.

And this wasn't Marissa Cooper I slept with. Somebody else. A stranger.

I regret it now. I should've pushed her off and slammed the door in her face. I shouldn't have answered the door, even. But I kissed her back and things took a wrong turn.

I was surprised at how thin she was.

When I had shoved my hand up her mini skirt and felt her thigh, there was practically no fat on her legs. When she had been on top of me, throwing her head back, her collar bones jutted out and I thought they'd rip through the skin. When she had nudged my mouth open with her tongue, I thought I tasted acid. Her legs over my shoulders had hurt me because they were so much thinner than before—I felt as if I was being batted.

And when I had pinned her hands above her head, driving into her, I saw red dots on the inside of her left arm. Drug wounds.

"How've you been?" Her voice woke me up from my thoughts.

I felt weird. Why the hell was she asking that _after_ sex? The order was different. But I spoke to her anyway.

I told her all about Summer and myself, but careful not to touch on the "high school" subject. All I talked about was 'now'. Not 'then'.

I told her about the fights Summer and I usually have over the last piece of cake, how I always have to help her unload the dishwasher, the amount of make-up Summer had in her wardrobe, and how I was studying to become a lawyer. I wasn't a man of many words, but that day, everything started spilling out of my mouth.

I asked her how she was, and how she led life after leaving Newport.

She told me about her drug abuse, how she spent her nights in men's bedrooms to save money and get drugs, and how her life changed when she was asked one night if she was interested in modelling. After then she became addicted to cocaine—she said she started taking them to lose weight at first.

"People always tell me to lose weight."

She was so messed up, and so was the fashion industry. I wanted to shout at her. But I kept myself turned away from her.

* * *

"You want a drag, Ry?" she asked, holding out a cigarette to me.

I gave her 'The Look'. "No Thanks. You know I quit a long time ago. You know I don't smoke." In our house, smoking was banned (by Her Imperial Viciousness Summer Roberts), but I didn't have the guts to tell her.

She shrugged, raising her eyebrows. She continued smoking, deep steady breaths, exhaling white smoke. I looked at her naked chest, and was surprised to see the traces of her rib bones which had drifted up to the surface, right between the breasts.

Who_ was_ this girl, sitting next to me naked, in _my _bed? Who was this girl puffing on a cigarette, with drug wounds on her arm? She certainly wasn't the Marissa Cooper I had known.

I sat upright.

"Who are you?"

She took a long drag on her cigarette.

"Whoever you want me to be."

Someone had pushed the rewind button, because I suddenly felt as if I was on the driveway of the Cohen's mansion again, except this time everything was the other way 'round.

Our relationship had never existed. And I knew immediately when she said this because I noticed that I had not felt the sparks that were supposed to be there between us. No high voltage, no chemistry, no nothing. This was nothing special. And I hate to say this, but I was hoping somewhere deep in my heart that Marissa Cooper, 17, would come back.

We were back to the start.

* * *

I had sex with her for the third time that night, and after I fell back on the bed, panting and exhausted, I drifted off to sleep.

When I woke up the next day the space beside me was empty.

I got up and opened the windows, so that Summer wouldn't know about the smell lingering in my room by the time she got back.

She'd be mad if she found out.

* * *

**A/N: **Review. I'm not really supposed to be updating now anyway; I'm supposed to be studying for my yearlies now. lol.  
And to the people who reviewed the first chapter...review this one as well, because I love you! llawl. 

Your opinion means a lot to me.

I'm also sorry about the lack of Sethummer, but that's only for now. Questions? No? Good.


	3. The Pudding and the Savior, Hallelujah!

**A/N: **Eeeeee I'm back!!!!!!!! Are any of you still there? Alive?

**Note: I have edited this chapter.**

* * *

**Chapter 2  
The Pudding and the Savior, Hallelujah!**

* * *

I must admit, I felt kind of guilty leaving Chino behind with Marissa Cooper. But that's what she wanted, and I knew things couldn't get any worse than _this_. So in exchange for our address, she gave me Seth Cohen's. I really couldn't believe I was actually holding this piece of paper. His address was scribbled onto it carelessly with a ballpoint pen in Marissa's writing, and as I looked at it, I remembered the days of our high school years when she was still there. She had always written neatly in a cute teenage girl-ish way. My writing had always been a bit messy. It was a good combination. Opposites attract, they say. Wasn't that why Chino and Marissa felt attracted to each other? And the reason I felt attracted to Seth Cohen? They should change it to something like this: "Opposites attract, but just for a little while".

It was already getting a little dark; I had just finished doing my job (today I did make-up for a bride, I think she was called something like Amy) and was on my way to Seth Cohen's house. I really didn't know whether to just look at his house and leave, or actually meet him, which will take a great amount of, well, courage. Don't get me wrong, it's not like I actually wanted to go, but I had to reassure myself that my house was larger than his. Okay, maybe not. But what was there to lose? I was already over him, and I'm not a coward scared of my past memories, not any more.

I turned at a corner and started searching for a certain house number. I had walked for about 15 minutes and my legs were killing me already. The reason? I hate exercising, and I still hate it now, plus, my make-up box was heavy. I kept walking for another few minutes until I came to a halt; I had found it. I felt the brisk wind blowing my hair; it whipped onto my face and got stuck on my lipgloss.

"Ew."

I rolled my eyes and pulled it off my face, while regretting purchasing the stupid sticky gloss.

His house stood before me. It was small—I didn't expect it to be very big. How could a young, obscure comic book writer live in a mansion anyway? But before noticing the house, I faintly heard music coming from it. The lights were on and I could see into the house clearly through the window. I couldn't believe my eyes and laughed when I saw a lanky, curly-haired figure in dishabille, pretending to play guitar. Dancing in underwear, listening to gay music? What a dumbass. He hadn't changed much. For a moment it felt like I was back in Newport, but I shook the idea out of my head. I wanted so badly to charge into his house and yell at him to turn the lame music down and wear some clothes, but I repressed my feelings.

A sprinkler on the lawn of a house nearby must've turned on because before I knew it, I could hear the sound of water being sprayed. I also felt miniscule drops of water fall onto my bare skin. I turned my head to look at it, and when I did, I suddenly remembered the day when Cohen dressed up as Spiderman. It had been raining that day.

I sighed and walked over to a tree by the driveway to hide myself. The last thing I wanted was to be seen. I placed my make-up box on the asphalt and got a memo pad out of my black Gucci handbag.

"Shit," I swore when I realized that I had not brought a pen with me. I remembered that I had my MAC eye kohl—it would be messy and a waste of product, but it will have to do. I just had to hope that it wouldn't get wet because it wasn't waterproof. The label on the eyeliner glistened—"PHONE NUMBER", it said. Funny thing that I wasn't actually writing my phone number.

I carefully scribbled a few words onto the scrap of paper and shoved it into the slot of his postbox. I purposefully didn't write my name on it—if he _did_ remember me, he'd know I had written it just by looking at my handwriting. I know his. He should know mine.

I watched him play the non-existent guitar for another five minutes, then picked up my make-up box and turned to leave. I thought of going back and ripping the piece of paper into shreds, but I didn't. I sort of wanted him to suffer and regret what he did to me, but I also wanted to remind him that I was still there. God, I am just so weird these days.

As I walked hastily across his driveway, I prayed for him not to find me. My heart filled with relief when I got to the end of the street—no more speed walking with blisters on my feet.

I headed for a bus stop and wondered which hotel I was going to stay for the night. I sat on a bench, sometimes talking to the old lady sitting next to me (she kept telling me how happy she was when her daughter told her she was finally getting married). My cell phone rang a couple of minutes before the bus came. I answered it of course.

"Hello? Summer Roberts speaking. …Oh yes, the 'Winter Sun' collection? …Really? Is he all right? ...Me, as a substitute? Yes I'm free on the 3rd. No problem. Bye."

As soon as I ended my conversation (I was asked to fill in for George Hathaway), the bus came to a halt in front of me, screeching. I hopped on, helping the old lady as I did so, and headed my way downtown.

* * *

I was listening to some indie music when I thought I saw her, walking across my driveway. I stopped dead, my eyes nearly popping out, and shuffled over to the window. It might just be my neighbor. I stuck my face to the pane of glass, squishing my nose.

A familiar brunette. Approximately 5 ft 3 inches. Could that be…? I raced towards the door and ran outside—I was barefooted and practically naked but I didn't care. I didn't even have time to think about that. I stood on the end of my driveway, just staring at the tiny silhouette walking further and further away. I wanted to shout out her name, but I was paralyzed. I must've stood there for quite a while, because Mr. Abbotts' sprinkler, which is always timed to turn off at six, stopped spitting water. The street was dead and silent.

I tiptoed on the icy asphalt, my feet frozen, and scurried back inside the house. I closed the door quietly for some reason and leaned my back on it, exhaling deeply.

"Was that Little Miss Vixen?" I murmured to myself. That was all I could say—I was too much of a coward and couldn't say her name. I suddenly remembered about my unfinished comic book that I had drawn during high school buried deep somewhere in my closet, and my boat, _Summer Breeze_.

The next morning I went to fetch the mail. I raised an eyebrow when I found nothing but a small sheet of paper in the postbox. I gingerly took it out, and read it. The white sheet reflected the rays of the morning sun, and it made me squint, but I could still read the words. They looked like they were written with crayon or something. I froze when I examined the handwriting, and said a word that I had not let out of my mouth for years.

"Summer."

You might think that that word doesn't have a particularly special meaning—it could mean summer, as in the season, or some plain old boring name. But to me it meant something more than special. It was like being released from bonds of oppression—something in me melted and my body felt lighter than ever before. I was free at last.

I went back into the house to have breakfast and finish the comic strip I had been working on. While I was shaving, I saw two dark circles (technically, they're two dark half-moons) under my eyes in the mirror—I had had them every day, but that was probably the last time I ever saw them again.

_Do you still remember me?_

Duh. Ask Captain Oats.

* * *

I went to sleep in my underwear but I suddenly woke up when a giant pudding barged into my dream. I craved some pudding. I looked at the clock and realized it was a little past 11. But I didn't care. I craved pudding, and that was all I thought about. Pudding. Pu-udding.

I sluggishly crawled out of bed and threw some clothes on. The pudding was waiting for me, somewhere. I'd never gone to the shops at this time of night and was unsure if they were still open, but I convinced myself that there would be some pudding at a random 24-hour store. Well actually, I wasn't thinking of anything at all. I just exited the house and locked it, and hopped into the car to drive myself to some pudding.

I stepped on the brakes and parked my car in the deserted car park.

"Whoa," I said. No one was there. Just a couple of cars including mine, and a small truck, was parked. That night, it was close to pitch black, and the only thing that prevented me from bumping into poles was the small lamp on the cement wall.

My body was pretty much still asleep, but my mind wasn't. I jogged through the car park and dragged myself to the sliding doors, then entered the shop to search for, well, you know. The white lights blinded me when I walked in. Practically no one was there in the shop, well there were a few people but that's it. I shouted with joy (in my head of course) when I found what I was looking for. My head screamed, _Go get it, Seth! Buy it and eat it! _I opened the door of the refrigerator, gingerly held out my hand and grasped it. The plastic packaging was cold and my palm was crying (well, not literally), but I had got it! _It was worth driving all the way_ _to this place,_ I thought. _I caught you now, pudding. Pu-udding._

Well I thought wrong. When I got to the cash register, I found out that I was a dollar short. _Damn you Seth, why didn't you bring some money with you? _my mind said. The pudding seemed to be flying further and further away. I was desperate to buy this though. I begged the shop assistant, who seemed to be a cantankerous woman in her fifties, to let me buy this for now, because I was going to come back and return the dollar.

"Please, you don't know how _much _I need this thing, if you don't let me buy this, my world would come crashing down on me. I need the pudding! Please, I'll come back again and return the dollar."

She crossed her arms and glared at me of course. Who was going to believe a person dressed in scruffy clothes, which looked more like pajamas? But I was desperate. And half-devastated. So I asked the girl who was next in line. She was probably a teenager; if I was only allowed one word to describe her, I think I would say, a female version of Ryan—looking all skeptic and broody.

"Um, hey. Will you please be kind enough to lend me a dollar? I promise I'll give it back to you. And I'll talk about you in my upcoming comic book if you want! Or my novel which I'm writing now! Please, I need this bad." I said. Yes I know, I was rambling, but who wouldn't under a circumstance like this one?

"Um, oh-kay. Well you don't have to give it back to me though." The "oh-kay" was said in a very skeptic manner. So Ryan-ish.

She handed the dollar to me and I let out an excited "Thank you". An old man who was behind the girl grumbled, "Hey, we're waitin' here you know!" I smiled and handed it to the lady who still looked grumpy. She dropped the pudding into a white plastic bag and handed it to me over the counter.

I let out a small sigh. Everything went er, smoothly. I waited for the girl to finish and thanked her once again.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Emily. Why?"

"I'll make you the new heroine in my new comic series and—"

"No thanks," she said, trying to hide her smile.

"Then do you want to be featured in my novel? A novel's better, right? Seriously, I can't thank you enough."

"It's just a dollar you know," she said coolly. "What made you want pudding _that _much anyway?"

"It came up in my dream," I said. "It looked delicious, really."

She chuckled. "You're weird."

We both walked through the car park. As we did, I suddenly remembered about Summer and was filled with an incredible urge to ask Emily about her. I had heard from Marissa that she worked in the fashion industry, so I thought that she might know.

"Hey, do you know Summer Roberts?" I knew she was going to say no or something like, what the fuck? but she didn't.

"Yeah, I think most girls would know about her. She's my role model," she said in a bored tone, the plastic bag in her hand swishing.

"What? How come you know her?" I blurted out. My heart was racing and I could feel my chest beating.

"She's my favorite fashion icon. How come _you_ know her? She's a make-up artist, and you're a guy. Are you gay or something?" she said curiously. I could see her amused face in the dim-lit night.

"Erm. Well. It's a long story."

"I actually met her a year ago. She used to work at a make-up store, damn, I forgot which one…I think it was shu uemura…or maybe it was MAC, but yeah, she did. And she gave me advice on how to apply eyeliner on my waterline. She was such a nice girl."

Her car was, coincidentally, parked right next to mine.

"So that means she lives nearby?" I asked, more to myself than to her. Plus, it was sort of a rhetorical question.

Emily shrugged. "I dunno. I'm not Google."

She opened the door of her car and was about to get in when I interrupted her.

"What's your last name? Just wondering."

"Rogers. Emily Rogers. Happy now?" she laughed and slammed the door, and waved me good-bye before starting the engine. I smiled and waved back. What a savior. At least I got to know that Summer had lived nearby. And now I could go to MAC or shu urumera or whatever it was to retrieve information about Summer. _So it _was_ worth coming all the way to this place, after all, a dollar short or not._

I needed to get home quick. The pudding wished to be eaten.

* * *

**A/N: **I decided to add chapter three to this one because this one was short and...yes. So how was it? Should I continue? I'm still wondering (though I have everything planned in my head).


	4. There Goes Your Temper Again

**A/N: **Whoooaaaaa it's been a full year since the last update I'm such a slackarse! I wouldn't be surprised if I don't get any reviews haha. I am really sorry to all the people who'd been waiting...I'll try and get it finished. I don't want to leave it around getting covered by dust.

* * *

"Summer, there's going to be an unveiling party on the 6th, you know that, right?"

"Right," I said, my vision out of focus. To be honest I wasn't really listening. I hadn't gotten enough sleep the day before and I was tired as hell—everything and everyone seemed to be moving in slow motion. I don't know how many times I yawned and blinked back tears that day. "I'm going."

The bad thing was that Marissa was coming as well. _But,_ I'll manage. If I can put up with her for a day just like I did at the photo shoot, then a party won't be that bad now, would it?

--------------

Make-up products in rows, waiters serving cocktails, and glittery decorations adorning the walls.

The unveiling party, so far, wasn't that bad. Marissa left me alone for most of the time so I was in a so-so mood. She was surrounded by wannabe models and all the while I stood in a corner talking about business.

"Summer, is it true you're going to release your own make-up line?" an excited blogger asked me, eyes widened.

"Uh, well, I dunno yet, but yeah." I shrugged. "I'm working on it. I want it to be a creative brand that sells cruelty-free products. As in, you know, no animal testing and all that."

"Really," breathed another girl (probably one of the editors of the beauty section in TeenSpirit), who was about to spill the cocktail in her hand.

I smiled and nodded. "Watch it, it's about to spill." I laughed and indicated the glass in her hand.

"Summer! Summer!"

My head jerked back when I thought I heard a familiar voice shout out my name from behind. A _very _familiar voice.

Seth Cohen was jogging his way towards me. The hair, the face, the lanky body, and the dorky atmosphere that seemed to waft around him...it all seemed much too familiar.

I literally froze on the spot. I felt my blood curdle, but at the same time, I felt rage well up inside me. I instantly regretted having left him the stupid anonymous letter. God, I must've been sick or something. Couldn't he have contacted me subtly instead of crashing a party?

What. An. Idiot.

"Why _the hell_ are you here," I hissed through clenched teeth. I said it more like a statement more than a proper question. "This party's for fashion gurus, unlike you." _Whoa, _I thought. I was surprised that I actually managed to talk normally.

"Long time no see, Summer," the bastard said, completely ignoring me. He looked as if he had seen me for the first time in a thousand years.

"Shut up, pothead!" Furiously, I shoved some chips into my mouth and scoffed it down. "And stop saying my name."

"I'm not a pothead anymore, Summer. I came to see you—"

I cut him off completely before he could say anything else. "How come you knew I was here, you stalker? Who gave you information?" My fingers clenched around a fork I had been holding. A rage blackout was going to come soon. Very soon.

I fully expected the answer to be Marissa, but it wasn't.

"No one. Well, to be exact, this girl I met by coincidence a few days ago. She told me you were a make-up artist. She was just like Ryan, you should've seen her!" His eyes glittered with enthusiasm. It made me want to kill him. "Speaking of Ryan, I haven't seen him for a long time... Anyway, I did a little research on the internet, and there was some information about an unveiling party for a make-up collection. I looked into it and it said you were coming too."

Great. Just great. Now I'm gonna have to kill whoever created the internet too.

I didn't know what to say. I just rolled my eyes. I saw the girls that'd been talking with me scatter.

"Summer." He took a tentative step closer to me. I took a step back. "I know you loathe me. And I don't blame you. I'm sorry. Can't we start over? I don't care how much time it'll take for you to forgive me and get used to me again. Captain Oats is waiting for you."

Now this was unexpected. And annoying.

He was staring at me in a serious manner but he still looked like a dork. If this were a different situation I would've laughed at him for sure, but at that time I was in no mood for a laugh. How could he say something like that after all these years? Start over? Start what over? I stood for a moment, saying nothing, looking into open space. I couldn't even think properly, my mind was numb. A few words managed to spill out of my mouth.

"You're a dork." My voice was monotonous, sort of drawling. What, I had to say something!

"Thank you," he said, annoyingly as ever.

"Over there!" a voice called out. A guard was striding across the room in our direction, accompanied by the two girls I had been talking with.

"Sir, your name?" The guard loomed over Cohen in a threatening way. I could see that he had a list of the guests' names in one hand.

"Um..." The idiot looked in my way. I raised a sceptic eyebrow. "Seth Cohen?"

Scanning the clipboard in the "C" column, the guard spoke. "I'm sorry sir, but there is no 'Seth Cohen' in this list. Do you have an invitation?"

"Uh, no. But I did have it with me a moment ago! I must have lost it when this guy bumped into me on my way here! It must've fallen out of my pocket," he rambled.

The guard's facial expression wasn't stern anymore but rather amused. "The invitation was sent via email and guests were asked to bring their cell phones along."

"Oh."

Great, did this mean he was going to get kicked out? Awesomeness. I smiled gratefully at the magazine editor and the blogger.

Just before the guard started leading Cohen to the exit, he did something weird. He pulled out a scrap of paper out of his jeans pocket frantically, and grabbing my arm, stuffed it into my hand. As he was being pulled to the door, he looked back over his shoulder and mouthed, "Call me". I rolled my eyes.

In a second he was gone. Just like that.

"Did he just say 'Seth Cohen'?"

A voice snapped me back to reality.

"What?" I said.

"Because if he did... I have just met one of my favourite writers. Damn, I shouldn't've kicked him out!" the editor said.

"How did you know he wasn't one of the guests though?"

"Sixth sense. Haha, just joking." She winked at me.

Careful not to be noticed, I slid the piece of paper that Cohen gave me into my clutch.

* * *

The unveiling party wasn't exactly the most exciting thing on earth. The moment it ended at 9pm I headed downtown.

I pranced through the crowd of people clubbing as if there was no tomorrow. I could tell some clubbers were on ecstasy just by looking into their eyes. That shows how much time I spent with drug-related people. Not that I wanted to.

Music boomed in my ears and I closed my eyes and listened, swaying.

Being a model wasn't that bad. I got to date whoever I liked, fashion brands gave me things for free, and I got to shine in the spotlight. Lots of money, too, which meant I could buy all the drugs I wanted.

The fact that I'd visited Ryan changed nothing. If I didn't do anything my life without Ryan will probably go on.

I squeezed my way through and finally got to the balcony of the second floor. It was hot and sweaty that night, humid, I suppose. Stepping outside was like crawling into a dragon's mouth.

Leaning against the handrails, I dialled his number. I decided to play an old trick on him.

_Beep beep..._

It wasn't long before he picked up.

"Hello?"

I smiled and bit my bottom lip remaining silent, holding back laughter.

"Who is this?"

A few seconds passed, and then he took a guess.

"Marissa."

I giggled. "Ryan," I said, copying his voice. He sighed through the phone.

"What is it?" It sounded like he wanted the conversation to end quickly.

"Nothing in particular," I said. No one was around except for some random guy who'd dozed off on the floor. "Well, actually, I have something I want to ask you."

"What."

"Are you free this Saturday?" I asked him as casually as possible.

Another sigh. "Marissa, I can't."

"You can't what?" I could hear my tone getting a little harsh.

"I can't see you."

I stood there saying and doing nothing for a moment. I'd been rejected. Somehow, and somewhere in my heart, though, I knew this was coming. Ryan Atwood was a sensible man. An ex-delinquent, yes, but he wasn't the type of person who'd get back together with a girl that easily. I should've known.

"I can't be with you. We broke up years ago and I didn't expect to see you ever again. Even if we talk things over...you're so messed up right now, Marissa. You need to pull yourself together. I've got enough going on in my life right now. Just forget what happened the other night."

We were in different worlds.

"You know, you're right. Seeing you was a big mistake. And I don't know why I called you...I really don't."

I hung up. I couldn't help but throw my cell phone against the wall. It shattered apart.

* * *

She called me just when I was about to start studying.

I couldn't believe it when I'd actually said it. It sounded a little too much but I'd said what I really felt. It pained me to hear her speak—her voice was like a hundred stabbing knives, gouging out my brains to uncover the bad memories I was trying hard to forget, one by one.

The moment she hung up, I was overcome by sudden rage. I didn't know who I was angry at—myself or Marissa. I threw the phone down in fury and it clattered onto the floor. There goes my temper.

* * *

**A/N: **Alright, how was it? Again, nothing happened much, I know. Expect to see change in the next chapter!


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